


Sweet Pea

by maximum_overboner



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Survivor Guilt, Wacky japes, dark humour, intentionally awkward smut, junkrat has lived a hard life and is having a merry old time, pachimari are here, roadhog has lived a hard life and suffered for it, roadrat - Freeform, the ol' 'we're stuck in a love hotel' trope, unhealthy dynamic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-10
Updated: 2017-05-10
Packaged: 2018-10-30 08:44:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10873260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maximum_overboner/pseuds/maximum_overboner
Summary: Roadhog mulls on his life of carnage and rampant, hedonistic destruction. Junkrat wears a maid costume. Together they commit crimes and deal with feelings they aren’t ready to process.





	Sweet Pea

**Author's Note:**

> now this is a departure from the norm! The relationship I like to think they have isn’t the most conventional, or even the healthiest, but I thought it would be fun to explore! ^^
> 
> i love that canon roadhog loves carnage, but also cute little pachimari!

“We’ve gotta _book it!_ ”

Roadhog grunted in acknowledgement, shoving a fistful of scrap into his shotgun. He had, at most, four shots left. The police were encroaching, sirens echoing around them as they thundered through the alley, their machinery juddering.

“Execute plan; alpha tango… Kappa... Delta-- something! The third one, the one where we run away!”

Oh for God’s sakes, if he was going to come up with puerile names then he could at least have the decency to remember them. Roadhog wheezed, cracking open a cannister of gas and shoving it to his maw whilst Junkrat skidded to a halt.

“If you’re going to have an asthma attack, might I kindly suggest you do it _when we’re not about to be shipped off to some hell-hole prison!”_

Roadhog lumbered forward and he relented immediately.

“-- Or do, y’know, take your time. The police are very understanding, very accepting.”

Picking up the Pachimari Roadhog advanced to the bike, hidden behind one of the clubs in the smelliest, dingiest alleyway they could find. Roadhog got on, cradling the toys, while Junkrat stuffed himself in the sidecar like he was stuffing a towel down a plug. With a deafening roar and a worrying clanking noise, the wheels were in motion. They zipped down streets and sidestreets, the sirens growing yet louder, until the first car came into view behind them. From it, an officer pleading with them to pull over reared his head, but as Junkrat neither understood nor cared about what he was saying he lobbed a grenade, the explosion narrowly avoiding the vehicle behind. Roadhog was unmoved, the toys squashed between his legs for safekeeping, squeaking away.

“Was that necessary,” he said.

“Probably not, no. What, you want me to just sit here?”

“Yeah.”

“Pfft, good luck.”

Junkrat stood upon the sidecar, like a pirate overlooking the sea, not thinking of the consequences of a fall and not particularly caring. From behind the smoke came one car, then two, then three.

“They’re tailing us and I'm nearly out of bombs, _throw the toys!_ ”

“ _No!"_

“They’re cute but they won’t let us keep ‘em in _jail, hog!"_

“ _We’re keeping ‘em!”_

Junkrat was screaming from his sidecar, using up what ammo he had left and conjuring explosions behind them.

“We could’a hit a _bank!”_

“ _They squeak when you hold ‘em.”_

“They’re adorable,” Junkrat bellowed, grenade launcher recoiling and scalding his shoulder, ”they’re adorable, _bin ‘em!_ ”

With a cry of despair Roadhog let loose their quarry upon the police car. Small, adorable onions battered against the windscreen, letting out impotent squeaks before bouncing harmlessly away. Sat in his lap was the last Pachimari, who he had dubbed Sweet Pea.

“ _Throw the doll!”_

_“I’d throw you first.”_

In front of them weaved a complex web of alleyways, just large enough for them to sprint through. Junkrat caught on at once.

They wedged the bike in as far as they were able and then disembarked, their bare skin grinding against the concrete as they scrambled further inwards.

Roadhog hauled Junkrat under his arm like a barrel of alcohol and sprinted, feet battering against the concrete. He heard his younger companion whoop, like he was engaging in sport, the colours of the police lights vanishing around a corner. When this was over he was buying a new chopper.

“Jesus, you’re fast when you want to be!”

“Shut-- up--”

Roadhog ran and ran, lungs burning and throat feeling like sandpaper, taking corners and forks, unseen cars blaring from all sides. Finally he spied an industrial bin, slinging Junkrat in it with little grace and even less dignity.

“--Oi--!”

He clambered in himself, shut the lid and waited. His heart pounded in his chest, he was sure his breathing could be heard from down the street. He heard frantic chatter echo down the street, he heard it pass the bin, and he heard it slowly vanish, taking the sirens with it.

“Whew, that’s--”

“Sit down.”

An hour passed. The noises would rise and fall. They stank of fish.

Junkrat attempted to stand up again.

“Well, now that we’re in the clear--”

“If you want to stay out of prison you’ll _sit down.”_

He did, crossing his arms and wobbling his lips. Eventually he fell asleep, and by the time Roadhog roused him the sky was dark.

“What-- I thought we were sleeping here for the night.”

“I can’t,” Roadhog admitted. “I tried but my back’s killing me. I’m getting a bed.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot. You’re old. How long was I out?”

“Five hours, give or take.”

“Five hours-- what did you do?”

Junkrat heard the faint squeak of a Pachimari.

“You’ve been playing with that fuckin’ toy!”

“It’s limited edition you little rat bastard,” Roadhog spat back, “now shut up and help me think. We need a place to crash.”

“Oh please sir, please, can I open the lid, oh please sir!”

Roadhog moved his hand dismissively, unwilling to bicker. Junkrat peered from the bin like a periscope from a submarine.  

“There.”

He pointed down the street to the gaudy front of a hotel, decked in pinks and flashing lights that screamed ‘look at me!’  

Roadhog looked at him like the moron he was, but the effect was lost under the mask so Junkrat assumed the glance was of approval and that he should continue.

“We’re wanted fugitives, right? Most pursued men in the world. Police, intelligence agencies, the secret sauce or whatever-- all on our backs. So they’re going to case the most out of the way, shitty little holes in the wall looking for us! Backend bars that you need codes to get into, beds under bridges, some poor bastard’s shed. They’ll have accounted for all that. But what they won’t expect is for us to walk right into a hotel as we are, book a suite, pay, then leave when we’re done with no fuss. Just… Walk right into the brightest one. Say hello! Eat the mints! Piece of piss, it’ll be.”

That… Was so stupid that it might actually work.

“... Huh.”

“You see! Not too shabby. Besides, if it all goes tits up we’d be locked up anyway. Worth a gamble I’d say. Come on.”

Roadhog tentatively climbed out, formulating a plan to get them in unnoticed, thinking of back doors and tales of being ‘kitchen staff’, but in the time it had taken him to do that Junkrat had walked in and began looking around. The inside of the hotel was dimly lit, bulbs subtly illuminating the way to several fixed screens. They appeared to be the only people checking in. This place valued privacy.

“There must be staff, but I can’t see ‘em. Just some screens. This could be fate, Roadie.”

Junkrat tapped the ‘Go!’ button and was met with wave after wave of Japanese text. He faltered.

“D’you know what any of this means?”

“No.”

“Don’t worry. I know my tech. I’ll hack it.”

Junkrat mashed the flat of his palm against the screen until he had, through the power of statistics and probability, somehow booked a room.

“God help me,” he said, “I’ve only gone and done it again. You’re lucky to have me around. You got the cards?”

Roadhog presented the fistful of credit cards from his pouch, that Junkrat insisted were procured through ‘perfectly legal means that didn’t involve death threats’. Junkrat picked the pink one first, tapping it to the screen. It was declined so he tossed it over his shoulder.

“Next!”

Declined.

“Next!”

Declined.

“Oh, for God’s-- next, _next!_ ”

Finally, accepted. Junkrat leaned in and squinted at the screen.

“Oh! Oh, there’s the button for English. Handy… What kind of hotel charges by the hour? Anyway, we have the until the morning--”

“I’m going to kill you,” Roadhog said.

“-- Looks like we booked the… ‘Wedding Suite’. We’re not even married! That’ll teach ‘em. Off we go.”

He took the presented room card from the machine and sauntered off to the nearest lift.

Upon surveying their room it became apparent to Roadhog that this was not a conventional ‘wedding suite’ and they had booked themselves into one of those hotels people slink away to fuck in. As evidenced by the bottle of lubricant and fistful of condoms arranged neatly on the coffee table. Into a smiley face. Cute. Junkrat had not picked up on this.  

“Jesus this is posh.”

The room appeared to be the largest in the hotel, the walls smooth and black, covered in semi reflective marble. In the very center of the room was a plush queen sized bed. Around the edges of the room were several coloured lights, that slowly changed from red to blue and back, all meeting at the long, bar-like table, complete with stools. Pressed to the walls were several comfortable couches, looking directly towards the bed, and upon the bedside table was a small, oblong object the size of a pen. Junkrat made a beeline for this and hit it the button on it at once. With a hum of electricity a screen projected itself from the base, moving as Junkrat twisted the object in curiosity.

“Hard light! Swish.”

As he put it back the screen dissipated with a pop. Roadhog sat on the bed, Junkrat taking the opposite side, neither of them really caring about the implied intimacy of the affair. Roadhog heard the grinding of teeth and mentally prepared himself for more incessant, tiring noise.  

“All those bombs for a toy. D’you know how hard these things are to make?”

“Yes.”

“They aren’t, but I still don’t have enough of ‘em for a heist. What’s a heist without a couple’a massive explosions? A dud! You get the money, sure, but there’s no _kick_ , no _fun!_ I hate to say it but until I get some more gear together, we’re gonna have to be…”

He looked pained.

“Inconspicuous.”

Good. Roadhog didn’t begrudge them staying out of trouble for a while. Junkrat began to think on what they could do while he slowly accrued the resources needed to force their way into the next country that took their fancy. False passports, or perhaps a cluster of grenades. If you removed the element of explosions his thinking was of that of a normal tourist.

“Maybe we can go get a bite to eat. Only had a little, but the food here? _Amazing_. No idea what it was I ordered, gonna make getting it again hard, but when there’s a will there’s a way!”

As uncomfortable as the idea of playing civil now made him, Roadhog wasn’t going to warn him off that idea. He liked food. He liked being fat even more. It was a status symbol. When you’re a starving bandit missing half your limbs and waving around a gun you don’t fear the muscular ones. You, above all, above even the most stringy of desperate men and women willing to skin you for a rasher of bacon, fear the fat guys. Because if someone is capable of amassing enough food to put on weight in the Outback then picking a fight with them is inviting hell right to your doorstep. Sometimes Roadhog would walk into camps and pick up what he wanted; supplies, water, fabric, and leave. And they would watch him, with their sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, the little muscle they had wriggling under their skin like leeches under paper. Weight was like a tally sheet of won fights.

To amuse himself he would wave as he left, as if hauling away their rubbish as a favour, purified water and dried food under his arm. And if they had any sense at all they would wave back. They usually did. Cursing his name under their weak, shallow breaths, but they did. With a degree of respect Roadhog noted that Junkrat had put on a few pounds recently. Not even enough for a gut, nowhere near, but still.

Junkrat felt the springs with his good hand, marvelling over how plush the mattress was, even if the whole room smelled uncomfortably of disinfectant. Junkrat took the opportunity to yammer again.

“Don’t see why we can’t blend in. Pretend we’re tourists for a couple days.”

“Our faces are plastered all over the world. We stick out. You’re a nuke on legs.”

Junkrat mulled over their predicament, glad of the anonymity the hotel gave them.

“I could get a wig,” he offered. “That’d throw ‘em off.”

“No.”

“I’d suit a wig!”

Junkrat sighed, scratching at the thick film of sweat and grime that had accrued over their stay in Japan.

“Need a shower. And my arm’s killin’ me. I burned it in the chase.”

He examined the red patch of skin on his arm, frowning as it ebbed over his tattoo.

“But it’s only one…”

He looked at the burn.

“ _Second_ degree burn, I’m getting better if I do say so myself. Which I do. Ey, we’re lucky this place doesn’t cost an arm and a leg, can’t afford to lose the ones I got left. It’d leave me _stumped._ ”

He cackled while Roadhog was unmoving.

“D’you get it?”

He did.

“‘Cause I’d have no limbs.”

He resumed his wheezing, braying laughter, slapping his knee so hard the mechanical hinge fell off.

“Piss, not again!”

Junkrat scrambled to gather the pieces of his knee. He had no screwdriver to hand but he managed to affix what he could, even if it was shoddy.

“We’ve gotta steal a welding gun. One of the big ones. This happens when we’re in the thick of it then we, my pal, are up shit creek.”

Roadhog grunted in acknowledgement of that fact. He could add it to the list of things to do.

Junkrat flopped backwards on the bed, before grabbing the nearest pillow and letting loose a howl of frustration, prone to theatrics as he was.  

“A stuffed toy! I love causing chaos as much as the next carcinogenic nutcase but even I’m drawing a line.”

Roadhog looked at him, stating what he knew to be fact.  

“You don’t draw the lines here.”

“Well for once I’m gonna! _I’m_ the one on top here, _I’m_ the one with the treasure, _I’m_ the brains! It’s not you, and it’s not that bloody onion!”

“You leave Sweet Pea out of this.”

They stared at one another. Junkrat relented, unable to look into the shiny, mirror-like material of the mask’s eyes without becoming unsettled. He sulked.   

“I’m taking a shower.”

“Fine.”

“Good!”

“Great.”

“I’m glad you think so!”

“Yup.”

“I’m so glad we’re in agreement, chum!”

Junkrat attempted to remove his forearm in a petulant manner. He could only partially detach it. His tone went from bitter to sugary-sweet.

“D’you mind getting the latch on the back? Can’t reach it.”

With a sigh of contempt Roadhog looked to the largest of the seals, situated on the metal that connected to the flesh of his upper arm. It had a handle in the middle, surrounded by thick, rusted plate.

“Anticlockwise, or the spring will fire off and take out an eye. Again.”

Roadhog braced his hand to Junkrat’s back and wrenched at it, the cobbled-together nature of the arm making it difficult to find purchase as it lacked the convenience of conventional prosthetic limbs. Roadhog didn’t have to worry about pain; the design was so archaic that Junkrat couldn’t even feel through it.

“Yeah that’s the ticket.”

With a clank and a pop of flesh the arm was off, Junkrat gently prising the small hexagonal connectors away one by one. Though his gut told him to rip them off like a dirty plaster, he couldn’t afford to break any and risk even the slightest loss in dexterity. After a minute those were detached as well, hanging limply from the structure while he clawed at the indentations they left.

“Itchy, itchy…”

He stood up, walked triumphantly into the bathroom and out of sight before abruptly reappearing in the doorframe.

“Standing shower. Hate the bloody things. Nightmares! I probably should have done this before I took the arm off, huh? Say, uh, d’you mind--”

Roadhog stood up, thundered through to the sitting area and dragged the cheap barstool into the shower before resuming his place on the bed.

“Aw, cheers Roadie. Much appreciated.”

He gestured to his arm, that now lay limply on the bed, rust flecking off of the bottom.   

“If you miss me just hold that thing’s hand ‘till I come through. Wank off with it or something, whatever makes you feel better.”

“No.”

“You’re missing out, it doesn’t take off as much skin as you think it will.”

The door clicked shut and Roadhog heard the hum of the pipes. He reclined, sighing, glad for the peace. He felt he could sink through the mattress to somewhere warm and dark, his eyelids grew heavy, the ache in his legs began to subside--   

Junkrat began to sing Funky Town at the top of his lungs. And to his credit he hit one note. Scowling, Roadhog thundered to the door and hammered at it.

“Quiet!”

“I’m not the one making the noise, Baconbits. I’m just trying to clean myself and you’re battering the door? Tsk tsk. Disgraceful is what that is.”

Roadhog was going to have an aneurism. Mercifully, Junkrat seemed to forget his spite long enough to enjoy the feel of the shower, relaxing in the water and, most importantly, not screeching at the top of his burnt lungs. He reappeared in the doorway, missing a coat of soot and hair flopping in front of his eyes, making him look younger and covering his bald spots.  

“I needed that. My hair’s growing back in! I’ll have a mane by the end of the year.”

He resumed his place on the bed, laboriously reattached his arm, picked up the hard light device and summoned the obnoxiously blue screen yet again. He gasped.

“This place has room service! Why would we ever wanna leave?”

“Because if you don’t split the treasure I break your back and leave you to crawl away like the rat you are.”

“ _Oh_ , why d’you _always_ have to piss in my salad. Relax! Take a load off. Unwind from the long days in the carnage coterie--!”

“Don’t give us a nickname.”

Junkrat rolled his eyes. Something silver caught his gaze, on the coffee table.

“-- Look, they got massage oils and everything in the little tray.”

He picked up the sealed bag, looking at the pink, oblong item inside.

“They give you a portable charger, too!”

He hit the button and it came to life, whirring erratically until he hit the button again.

“Ohh,” he said, “you shove it up your arse, I get it. I get it.”

He perused the pictures, having trouble locating the language settings.

“Wanna watch some TV?”

“No.”

“Play a game?”

“No.”

“Do anything that’s even the slightest bit fun?”

“No.”

“Suit yourself, misery guts. I’ll be over here having the time of my life.”

Roadhog took this chance to sleep, to slip into sweet, beautiful, noiseless sleep. Junkrat shook his shoulders.

“ _Costumes!_ They let you rent _costumes_ here, Roadie!”

Roadhog gave him a look. A dangerous, pointed look.

“Gah, you’re right, can’t go wastin’ our money on-- _hold the phone they’re free!_ ”

Roadhog groaned, pulling his mask away just enough to pinch his nose. He was getting a migraine. His slender, squawking companion leapt up, nearly toppling before righting himself.

“Ya see that, in the big red box in English, _free!_ When we split the riches we’re buying out one of these places, we’ll be raking it in.”

“‘We’.”

“Yes, ‘we’, keep up!”

Roadhog drew close to his face until they were only inches away, not needing to raise his voice to be threatening.

“Have you ever just sat down and thought. In your whole life, rat. In your whole, wretched life, have you ever stopped for even five minutes and thought about anything? ‘Cause I don’t think you have. If you did it’d be quiet and you couldn’t handle the thought of having to be stuck listening to your own brain instead of whatever pours out of your mouth. It’d sink in that you’re useless.”

This did not sting Junkrat. On the contrary, Junkrat enjoyed the chance for a two way conversation.

“Mako,” he said with a great deal of solemnity, as if eulogizing the man at his funeral, “what kind of international criminal would I be if I _didn’t_ put on a sexy costume when given even the _teeny tiniest hint_ of an opportunity.”

He resumed his browsing, cooing over the pretty models in their costumes.

“Sexy firewoman, sexy lifeguard-- that one makes me wear more than I usually do, next _\--_ sexy homicide detective, sexy _omnic_ , urgh-- _ooh, bingo!”_

He mashed his finger to the screen, the skidded out of the door and returned with a large plastic bag, something very distinctive resting in it.

“They just hand you stuff--” he said, kicking off his shorts, “-- through a hole in the wall, it’s so cool! Ta da!”

There he was. The costume didn’t fit but he didn’t seem to care.

“Sexy maid! You can’t argue with the classics,” Junkrat gushed.

Was this hell.

Junkrat dusted off his pinny, resumed his place and began to browse once again.

“Ooh, they have porn here! Wanna watch--”

“No.”

“-- How about food? You order from here.”  

Roadhog went to say something biting, but failed. It wasn’t a bad idea, they hadn’t eaten all day.

“Sure.”

“Knew you’d like that one. Let’s see, let’s-- nice, they have boba tea! I love the stuff.”

“You’re gettin’ spoiled,” Roadhog grunted, now aware that sleep was a pipedream.

Junkrat rested his head on his chin smugly.

“Why Roadhog, my dear judgemental travelling companion. My piggy pal. My resident angry bastard. Shall I order _two_ boba teas?”

Dammit.

“... Yes.”

“I thought as much.”  

He became quiet, serious. Solemn.  

“Bet I can outeat you.”

“You’re an idiot,” Roadhog said, surprising himself with his own tone. Nearing ribbing rather than outright contempt. It wasn’t quite there, but it was getting too close for comfort.

“I mean I know that, but I bet I can outeat you. It’ll be fun! It’s not our money we’re blowing.”

That was true. Roadhog was uncomfortable with how quickly he had acclimatized to the maid costume. He picked up Sweet Pea, gave her a squeeze and knew peace.

“Fine.”

“Oh you’re gonna regret going up against Jamison ‘Iron Stomach, Sex Machine, Flawless In Every Way’ Fawkes!”

“Nobody calls you that.”

“I do! You allergic to anything?”

Roadhog had a hard time recalling the halogen lights of a waiting room a lifetime away. It was like peering through frosted glance. It made his head hurt. He stopped.

“... Shellfish, I reckon.”

“You aren’t _sure?_ Then I’m making a new rule; if you die, I win.”

“Deal. But if I die I win anyway.”

“How’d you figure?”

“Won’t have to listen to you.”

Roadhog chuckled.

“Oh, har har. Leave the jokes to me, Piggy. You just stand there and look pretty.”  

He began cycling through, ordering whatever caught his eye.

“Alright, uh… Two of these, two of these… Some of those things, a couple of whatever that is...”

They waited. And after what felt like a lifetime Junkrat bolted down the hall to collect their quarry, returning with several trays and laying them flat on the table.

“Ready… Set--”

Junkrat, in an effort to get a head start, betrayed the sanctity of competitive eating and began shoving fistfuls into his maw. Roadhog began also, delicately holding the chopsticks and surveying his plate, scooting his mask up an inch. Breaded chicken, rice, and some kind of curry. It was good. Junkrat had already devoured his, as if he hadn’t eaten all month. He started on the second plate, a thick noodle soup with some sort of meat in it.

Roadhog squinted. Pork. Looked good, he would have that next.

Junkrat looked as if he was already suffering. And so, he continued throwing back the bowl with barely enough time to register what it was he was actually eating. At one point he began to choke on a half boiled egg before coughing it up and continuing.

By the time Junkrat was on his fourth meal Roadhog had began his second, and by the time Junkrat relented Roadhog was on his fifth.   

“I can’t-- why did I think this was a good idea-- oh God, you win, you win, I’m done!”

“You done?”

“I’m done.”

Roadhog pushed his empty plate away, before hemming and choosing a plate from Junkrat’s side. Grilled chicken on a stick, it looked like. Very good. You could never go wrong with soy sauce.

Junkrat looked close to throwing up.

“You already won! You don’t keep shooting if something’s already dead!”

“I’m proving a point.”

He ate that as well, delighting in the satisfaction of a full meal and the chance to show up Junkrat. Stupid bastard. Starting an eating challenge.

Junkrat reclined on the bed, revealing what Roadhog could only describe as a cheeky testicle.

“Ordering food _and_ costumes from a big flashy screen,” Junkrat mused. “Sure beats fistfighting radioactive roos under the stars for a _yam._ ”

“Put that away.”

“Put what aw-oh, that. Amazed I’ve still got two.”

He scratched it then went back to reclining, sighing as his joints popped. Roadhog grimly accepted that it was going to be himself, Junkrat, Sweet Pea and the cheeky testicle. Huzzah. Their party had grown. New friendships, forged.

They settled into a tired silence, warm enough to make Roadhog visibly uncomfortable. Junkrat was very much willing to break this with more pointless mouth noise.

“Roadie… Whaddya look like?”

“None of your business.”

Junkrat shrugged his shoulders, nothing more than curious.

“You don’t have to show me if you don’t want to. I’m not gonna be a dick about it. I was just wondering.”

It was his willingness to let it go that made Roadhog relent. The more he had pushed the topic the tighter the clasps would have been, but his lack of reaction made it seem like it just wasn’t a big deal. When was the last time he had taken this off? Never in front of someone. And he didn’t know why, that was the thing. There wasn’t a moment where he stood upon a pile of corpses and donned his mask for the first time, his humanity tumbling away from him in great heaving clumps. It had just went on and… Not come off. Sighing, cursing himself for getting so comfortable he undid the first latch, gauging Junkrat’s reaction.  

“Ooh! Wait! Lemme guess. Uh… Hmm. Radioactive pig-face!”

Roadhog took off his mask. His eyes were small and deep-set, his nose wide and upturned and his jaw soft, fading easily into his neck. He was caked with grime and his stubble was uneven, patchy and white like static. From his chin to his forehead stretched a long tread of discolored, waxy skin, a burn that hadn’t been tended to properly and had been left to fester and scar into pinks, reds and whites. As he breathed Junkrat noticed that many of his teeth along the scarred side were missing, his lips dipping into the small indentation. He had the face of someone that had seen, and participated in, far too much. The perfect picture of a Junker. Weary, and ugly.

“Not bad,” Junkrat said, meaning it. “Thought you’d have an extra eye. Or a fist where your face should be. Two eyes, nose and a mouth, not bad at all. Neat scar, too! How’d ya get it?”

Roadhog sat on the bed, unmoving. His rigidity flew over the head of his younger crony, Junkrat had assumed it was his normal proclivity for silence rearing its head. He continued to pester.

“C’mon, c’mon c’mon! I’ll tell you how I got these hunks of junk.”

He thudded his self-made arm and leg, respectively.

“Only lost my arm to a mine! Lost the leg in a drinking game, _and_ I got a metal plate in the arse--”

The noise thinned out. Roadhog didn’t care anymore. He wanted to stop for a while.

“Omnium’s fusion core,” Roadhog said, unmuffled by the mask. “The explosion.”

Junkrat went quiet and Roadhog vainly hoped it was in silent, solemn contemplation. Junkrat was many things, but he wasn’t thick. He could put two and two together well enough, it must have clicked that Mako, Mako Rutledge, was one of the people responsible for what the Outback is, an irradiated hell hole where society crawls to die. Roadhog would let him get a fair swing in before retaliating, he deserved that much.  

“You came out the fun kind of ugly! The kind of ugly with a story.”

Roadhog raised his eyebrows.

“Gah! I’m not used to seeing those, they creep me out. Stop making your face do… Emotion… Face-things.”

Roadhog was sat on the bed, sinking into it whilst Junkrat stretched next to him, elongated comically like a snake. His senses were trained to the point of paranoia regarding potential threats, and yet he didn’t sense any contempt at all.  

“Nasty business that,” chuckled, light and blithe as if complaining good naturedly about the traffic, adjusting the hem of his cheap costume. “‘Course I was six and setting fires to anthills when that all happened. Twelve; setting fire to people!”

He laughed again without even a tinge of bitterness.

“Got good at that one. Really good. You know all about that, though. Not so great at the junking part, but you can’t be good at everything. Important lesson, that.”  

Roadhog tried to absorb what he was saying and failed. In a moment of weakness he had handed Junkrat what he knew to be the most dangerous secret he could ever tell him, and Junkrat didn’t seem to want to do anything with it.

“Used to live with my mum,” Junkrat said to himself, all this talk of the past making him grow more wistful by the moment. “Lovely woman, _lovely_ woman, miss her every day. She took off when I was young.”

And as astonished as he was Roadhog saw fit to encourage him, a scrap of attention being the little kindness he could give.

“... Ran away?”

“No, stepped on a landmine. Took off. Like a rocket. Wasn’t even mine, that’s the worst bit, at least then I could have had some pride in my work. Self-confidence is good for kids! What about you, got any family waiting for ya? Nice Road-ette to blow your riches on?”

Roadhog was reticent and even Junkrat knew not to pry too deeply. He sighed, scooted off the bed, rooted in the minibar and tossed the strongest drink available to his companion, who downed the tiny bottle of whisky in one acrid gulp.

“Thanks.”

“Another?”

“Yeah.”

“Careful, I’m going to see how many times I can make the bottle flip in the air.”

The answer was three. Roadhog drank that as well. Junkrat saw fit to keep prodding. 

“How old are you?”

Roadhog shuddered at the sting of the alcohol, like drain cleaner, before wiping his mouth.

“Why’d you ask?”

Junkrat shrugged.

“Oh, just making conversation. One of us has to.”

Roadhog didn’t really remember; he guessed to humour his companion.

“Forty eight.”

“Not got my youthful exuberance! Me, I’m twenty five.”

Roadhog took a good, long look at Junkrat.

“ _Jesus._ ”

He was met with a flurry of punches to the shoulder that he didn’t care to rebuke.

“Don’t be-- fuckin’-- rude!”

Junkrat gave him another impotent wallop, not enough to sting, for good measure, before slowing to a stop. They looked one another in the eyes and neither knew what to say. Roadhog, Mako, for all his muscle and bulk, looked frail. It occurred to Junkrat that he hadn’t hired some sort of mythical scourge of the Outback to lumber after him and guard his treasure, but a tired, hard-bitten man. The knowledge that the terrible things he had done had been done with a conscience underneath it all made Junkrat feel better about their situation. If Roadie could carve out a space for himself in other people’s guts and bone then by God so could he! And Junkrat didn’t even have to worry about the baggage of a previous life or anything so boring as guilt or consequences, not when they were together and invincible. They truly were made for this. For each other.  

“D’you feel bad about it? The factory.”

Roadhog was so quiet as to barely be heard. He held his head in his hands before sweeping them over his face.

“... Yeah. I try not to. But I do.”  

“D’you think this is a bad gig?”

“What?”

“This. Doing what you want, going where you want, ruffling some feathers, and then setting those feathers on fire. Dunno about you, but I’m fulfilled! Sure, the radiation’s done a number or three on my lifespan, but I’m gonna be blowing up young anyway! It’s just what I am. It’s what I am, and it’s what you are, too. We’re no suits. You and me, we’ve got it all figured out, Roadie. All figured out. I don’t care what you were before all this--”

Farmer.

“-- But friendship, food, gutting bots for parts? All we are, all we’ll need to be. From the sticks to King’s Row and back, you and me.”

He took a drink, smacking his leg when it burned his throat. He chuckled darkly, without the exuberant humour he seemed so obsessed with.

“-- You ‘n me.”

Jamison Fawkes was born in South Australia. Junkrat, however, was born in the hell Mako Rutledge had wrought, just as Roadhog was in turn. And whilst Mako’s humanity ebbed away from him over years of killing for survival, and eventually, sport, Junkrat shed his as a boy like a taipan casts off its skin. Roadhog saw a glimpse of what Jamison might have been, steadfast, loyal and quick to laugh as he was, lacking the temperance and restraint that comes with comfortable living, something he had only recently began to know. In The Outback your throat could be cut in your sleep by another starving Junker just trying to get by. It didn’t matter if they enjoyed it or not. Repetition, the thrill of avoiding death for another day and ensuring your safety is a soothing, frightening thing that makes even the most reasonable of men into monsters. It burrowed in and ate at your capacity for civility. Eventually you were left to either force yourself to love the feeling of gutting another person to live or die to someone willing to make that change.

Something stirred in Roadhog. He knew it resembled guilt.

“And I won’t tell ‘em,” Junkrat continued. “I won’t tell ‘em that you were at the plant. I’m no grass. You tried to get the bots out, you did the right thing. I’d have done the same. Besides, I can’t go getting you killed. You’d miss me in hell.”  

Roadhog was caught off guard and laughed, eyes creasing. Junkrat looked as if he had won every lottery on the planet.

“I knew I’d get you! I knew a sense of humour was in there! Not a man alive that can resist ol’ Junky’s charms.”

“I laugh.”

“You’re usually too busy telling me to ‘stay out of trouble’ and ‘stop detonating explosives on the tram’.”   

“You remember the bar,” Roadhog responded, air whistling through the space in the side of his gums, “in Dorado. The merc.”

Junkrat mouthed the words before recollection hit him.

“Oh my God, that one! The one with the infected tattoo?”

“Yeah, him. Skinny guy, long hair. Broke like a twig.”

“Intestines hit the wall?”

“Mhmm.”

“God, I cracked up! That waiter started crying, ‘oh, boohoo, don’t shoot me, I have a family, they’d hate it if I blew up everywhere’! That bastard just _exploded_ , whoosh, kidney confetti; what did he expect trying to fight us up close.”

“No idea. Shame we got banned. That place had good food. I liked the mango, but it had stuff on it. Coconut and something else.”

“Next time we hit Dorado,” Junkrat promised, “we’re getting it. Even if it, um, can’t be at that bar.”

Roadhog felt uneasy regarding his sincere desire to see that through. He donned his mask for a moment to inhale then, with hesitation, took it off again. Junkrat noted this, watching with an improper glee.  

“Wow, you’re talking up a storm, and it’s not even because you’re drunk! Consider me touched, Piggo.”

“Used to be chattier,” he admitted. “Don’t need to be, now. No point.”

“Hey, you’re talking now, it’s a start!”

“Only to you.”

“How sweet! And depressing. But sweet! All it took was some pestering and a life destroying secret.”  

“I usually end up shooting the people that try and chat with me,” Roadhog said, “so I’m rusty.”

Junkrat rested his hand on Roadhog’s shoulder and found his arm wasn’t immediately torn from the socket.

“Stick with me and I’ll make you a fine conversationalist. A sparkling wit. Not as much as me, I can’t have you showing me up, but close! You’ve been kind to me!”

“You think ‘not shooting you’ is kind?”

“From you it is.”

As petty as it was that actually stung. Junkrat continued, twirling a lock of his own hair.

“I have to repay you, and I can’t promise you another cut of the treasure ‘cause then you’ll get the majority! I’ll just have to…”

He flopped on the bed, bracing his hand to his forehead as if he hadn’t been looking forward to this.

“ _Sell myself!_ ”

“No,” Roadhog said.

“Whadd’ya mean ‘no’, look at me! Who doesn’t want to root a _maid?_ I must be revvin’ your engine. You’re a red blooded man. I’m also a red blooded man, dressed like a maid. We can bump sweet uglies together.”

“That’s what the costume is for?”

“I wanted to lay about in it. But this is a bonus. I’m good to you, Hog.”

He kicked his hairy leg up. There was that ball again.  

“Maybe you can be good to me.”

Roadhog sighed, head in his hands. Fine. Fuck it. Why not. Tonight was weird enough as it was. He must have hit the hogdrogen too hard again, it does crazy stuff in high doses. He was probably shouting at people in a car park naked, like last time. With a long, weary sigh, he answered.

“Fine.”

“I’m glad to see you so enthusiastic! Now whip out your piglet and we can get right to it.”

Roadhog did so. Through a series of mumbled half-sentences it was decided that Roadhog would bottom on all fours, so as not to rocket Junkrat’s intestines out through his mouth. Fumbling and slathered in lubricant Junkrat pushed in, and Roadhog wished it had stung more.

Roadhog grunted, pushing back before coming upon the chance to make his own jokes.

“Is it in.”

He didn’t see Junkrat’s face, but he could imagine what it looked like.  

“It’s as in as it’s gonna get! It’s average! No, no, it’s above average!”

“It’s like a toothpick.”

“ _It’s not a toothpick!”_

“Yeah, it’s not; people like having them in their mouths.”

Roadhog laughed until he wheezed while Junkrat beat his thigh uselessly.

“I’m doin’ _you_ the favour here!”

He thrusted, still complaining before the grumbles fell away to an uneven, syncopated rhythm. It wasn’t satisfying, it was barely pleasurable, but what it happened to be was slithering and uncomfortably intimate. Neither of them laster particularly long, and that was for the best. Junkrat drove himself down again and again, battering as hard as he could before squeaking, going limp and slathering Roadhog’s back with wet, cold kisses. Roadhog finished himself off quickly, head pressed to the mattress. They were left stuck on one another. It was as quick and meaningful as it was disappointing.

“Since we’ve finished up our fun for the night,” Junkrat purred, “I am legally required to inform you as a citizen of central Australia that you should seek medical attention for the, frankly, _unbelievably_ radioactive semen currently-- oh wait, I forgot who I was talkin’ to! I reckon we just committed a war crime. I’ve always wanted to do one of those!”

“Jamie--”

“So soon! From ‘rat’ to ‘Jamie’ so soon! Is this love, Roadie? Or is it Mako now? Makie? Cutie-Pie? Ooh, ooh ooh, don’t tell me you’re getting _soft!_ Have I unlocked the seal to your hard, dead hard with my glow in the dark wanger?”

A complex slurry of emotions tumbled in Roadhog’s gut as Junkrat threw his arms around his shoulders in gay abandon and tried to plant a long, wet kiss on Roadhog’s lips. And Roadhog, to his own dismay, turned to meet it. It was a badly executed kiss, with Junkrat being wildly enthusiastic and Roadhog being years out of practice, but it worked nonetheless.  

“The wedding will be in June and I demand, _demand_ petunias.”

Roadhog was lost for words, and it wasn’t out of choice.

“I-- You-- What.”

“The wedding! For our children. And I won’t let you leave them in a broken home! Just because my mum exploded doesn’t mean our kids will have that happen to them!”

Oh God. His insanity went beyond the bombs. This was catastrophic. This was the worst possible scenario.

“Jamison Rutledge, or Mako Fawkes? I think you should take my name. Ooh, maybe we could stick ‘em together!”

Roadhog held his head in his hands, before being brought back with a delicate tap to the shoulder and a rather sly looking Junkrat.

“Roadie? I’m joking.”

Roadhog pushed Junkrat off then clutched his chest. His shaking hands found the nearest cannister and he huffed with all his might. Had that went any longer he might have passed out from the stress.

“A wedding! God, should have seen the look on your face! Taking off the mask was a mistake, you’re never gonna hear the end of this. You fell for it, you actually fell for it! And petunias, agh, give me some credit! Desert roses at least, I’m a man of class.”

He felt Roadhog’s massive hand wrap around his scalp before it lingered and retreated.

“... What was that?”

“Thinkin’ about breaking your neck.”

“You’re lying, that was a pat,” Junkrat brayed, “That was a stroke of the ol’ noggin!”

“Shut up.”

He peppered Roadhog’s neck in affectionate smooches, his wiry arms becoming vice-like.

“Who’s a cute piggy-wiggy-handsome--”

“ _You’re pushing it.”_

**Author's Note:**

> i would like to formally apologize to any australians and say that my cartoonish attempt at your dialogue is... actually... deliberate! because junkrat speaks in a cartoony manner, and isn't me not knowing what i'm doing.
> 
> yes. yes, that will do.


End file.
